#001 - Lousy Drinker
* this story is 99,7% true. *
My mom loves to tell people that I’m a lousy drinker.
Her judgement is based on two occurrences. The first time, my dad had to pick me up passed out drunk on someone’s front lawn. I was fifteen years old. The second time, I hurled cheap pizza and two magnum-sized bottles of an undrinkable 8% horse piss beer called Bull Max on department store-issued sample floor tiles in my parents’ bathroom. I vaguely remember mom being more agressive with me than she’s ever been. I was eighteen years old or so. The irony in that judgement is that my mother doesn’t drink. My dad has the odd beer/glass of liquor, but he doesn’t really drink either.
She doesn’t know what a good drinker is. Anyone who gets drunk is a bad drinker to her. These two stories are everything she’s ever had on me. But she’s not totally wrong. She just mostly is.
Last month, I had my Christmas party at work before Omicron came crashing on Canada. I found my way into the hard liquor room way too early in the evening, because most people I wanted to hang out with were there. If you think people at your job can drink, you should really come to one of our parties when the plague stops wrecking the planet. I never understood the pace my coworkers are drinking at. They start early, drink like clockwork and get hammered way later in the night than I do. They do get fucked up, but I usually witness it the following day on Slack.
I never understood the pace my coworkers are drinking at. They start early, drink like clockwork and get hammered way later in the night than I do.
I have very few memories from that night. The first hour or so went fine and then, I remember making a giant-ass gin & juice mason jar and thinking to myself it was a really bad idea. Soon after, I remember thinking: “it’s fine, I’ll sip from that thing all night if I have to". Fast forward another hour or so and I remember dropping the contents of the jar in the toilet thinking it really was a terrible fucking idea after all. Last thing I remember from that night was seeing the two tattoo artists we hired for one of the Christmas activities kissing each other. I have no idea how I got home without dying, but I wouldn’t have let myself leave the party alone.
My friend Lucie, a tiny Asian firecracker of a woman, called me an idiot the following day. "We would’ve loved to party with you all night long, but you got shitfaced so early,"she said. That was the most valid criticism of my drinking I’ve ever heard. I would’ve also loved to party all night long with people who enjoy hanging out with me, but I deprived all of us of my presence. Lucie was leaving for another job the following week, so it was our last party together. I had no fucking idea what so answer, so I apologized.
I’m a great lonely drinker. I can nurse one or two glasses of hard liquor for an entire evening while writing or watching a movie. When I’m with people, it becomes a physical thing.
There is no valid reason why I drink the way I do. Contrary to most people, I’m a great lonely drinker. I can nurse one or two glasses of hard liquor for an entire evening while writing or watching a movie. When I’m with people, it becomes a physical thing. It’s just something that I do, like these wooden birds who sip water from glasses. It’s like smoking cigarettes, although I’ve never smoked cigarettes past those I smoked in the woods when I was in fourth grade. The action of drinking itself gives you a credibility you don’t have by just standing around. You can say nothing. Not participate in any discussion or activity and belong in the room because you’re doing what you’re supposed to do when people are partying.
Alcohol’s never been the problem. I don’t use it to destroy myself. I don’t use it to destroy others either. Whenever I get hammered, I stop communicating, mechanically reel myself home and put myself to bed. I might be a lousy social drinker, but I am the Bret Hart of being shitfaced. The excellence of execution.
No, the problem is anxiety. Being vulnerable in an environment I don’t control. If I get hammered before everyone else, three things happen: 1) I stop thinking 2) I’ve done something to myself before anyone else could and 3) I get to go home. It flattens out uncertainty. Another thing I remember from the night I hurled on the department store-issued sample floor tiles is that I had planned exactly that. I had a terrible fucking week and wanted to do something terrible to myself. I wanted to punish myself for feeling weak, lonely and powerless and I did exactly that. The consequences of that are my mom’s trauma. Not mine. I had achieved what I set out to do in the most cynical, depressing way #Grinding.
My mom thinks my drinking is her problem because it has been on two non-consecutive evenings over twenty years ago. That’s why I still think about it today. That’s why it’s sometimes a problem when I’m around other people.
The moral of this story is: calling someone a lousy drinker is more likely to turn that person into a lousy drinker than to scare them straight from the life of drinking you’re trying to help them avoid. Truth is, getting hammered is no big deal if you don’t feel compelled to do it every night. Had it been a little less of an apocalyptic scenario for my mom, maybe drinking in society wouldn’t feel apocalyptic to me. It’s not my mother’s fault if I drink. I simply love it and do it responsibly most of the time. But it’s a little bit her fault if I feel anxious when partying.
Sometimes I hurt myself when partying, but I hurt only myself.
My mom thinks my drinking is her problem because it has been on two non-consecutive evenings over twenty years ago. That’s why I still think about it today. That’s why it’s sometimes a problem when I’m around other people. I’m a lousy drinker, but not really. It’s alright to be irresponsible sometimes if no one gets hurt. You go to bed, sleep it off and start over the next day, just like you do when you don’t drink.
I’m going to pour myself a glass of gin right now.
